


ah my love, ah my own

by seventhstar



Series: a covenant with a bright blazing star [22]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha Katsuki Yuuri, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Regency, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mutual Pining, Mutually Unrequited, Omega Victor Nikiforov, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Regency Romance, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 22:38:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12945519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstar/pseuds/seventhstar
Summary: “Is he not well?”“He says he’s indisposed, milord—”The maid’s sentence goes unheard; Yuuri, visions of Viktor in the throes of fever burning behind his eyelids, rushes past her up the stairs and into the family wing. He passes the chamber where Viktor used to sleep and flings open the door to what is now their shared bedchamber.[part of an ongoing series of fics, telling the story of poor and scandalous trademan's son viktor nikiforov's marriage of convenience to the reclusive lord katsuki]





	ah my love, ah my own

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, folks, here is your MEGA UPDATE: not one, not two, but four more fics in these series are being posted today! so if you're not subscribed, here's your alert: keep reading! (there's more porn if that helps)
> 
> Reminder that the fics in this series are not being written in chronological order, so if you're reading them as I have them listed in the series, you might find yourself rereading. Check the date posted to see which ones are new!

The news that Viktor has taken to his bed rather than come down to dinner sends Yuuri into an abject state of panic.

“Is he not well?”

“He says he’s indisposed, milord—”

The maid’s sentence goes unheard; Yuuri, visions of Viktor in the throes of fever burning behind his eyelids, rushes past her up the stairs and into the family wing. He passes the chamber where Viktor used to sleep and flings open the door to what is now their shared bedchamber.

It is empty; the bed has been made up, and there is no sign that Viktor has returned here since breakfast. Two of their pillows are missing. Viktor’s correspondence—news of business from Chris, a description of the vagaries of his classmates from Yuri, one short letter from Viktor’s solicitor that he refuses to read in Yuuri’s presence—is sitting on the nightstand, piled carelessly. Makkachin is asleep at the foot of the bed. Frowning, Yuuri searches their dressing room and then the adjoining sitting room. Viktor is in neither. He runs a hand through his hair before stepping back out into the hall.

The door to Viktor’s former bedroom is locked. Yuuri knocks, and hears only a faint moan in response. Fear rises in him like a tide; if Viktor has taken ill, Yuuri must tend to him at once. A recurrence of magical fever could kill him. Yuuri draws up his magic and mangles the lock before throwing open the door.

Viktor is there, flung carelessly over the bed, stripped down to his shirt and nothing else. The remains of his clothing are piled around him, along with two of the pillows from their bed and one of Yuuri’s coats. Sweat glistens on Viktor’s forehead, soaks his hair where it is plastered to his flushed skin.

“Viktor, are you—” Yuuri inhales and stumbles.

“Yuuri.” Viktor’s voice, breathless, low with suppressed desire, nearly brings Yuuri to his knees. “You’re here.”

“Forgive me for intruding. I thought you ill. But I see that you are indisposed.”

“So I am,” Viktor murmurs. “I thought it would be longer. I had hoped to avoid this until after…”

He does not voice what they must both be thinking: that in two months their arrangement will be at an end, and the papers for the divorce will be signed, sealed, and delivered to the judge for consideration. Yuuri has the settlement agreement on his desk in his study, awaiting Viktor’s approval; it has been there a month, but he has not yet found the courage to present it to him.

It is a mark of his inexperience that it never occurred to him that Viktor might go into heat. _What stupidity,_ he thinks; _of course he would have at least one, if we were together a year._ Only Viktor’s long illness and his resulting weakness have delayed this one. He is lucky that it did not happen while the Duke was here, or while Viktor was recovering from his illness.

Yuuri has no idea what a husband is supposed to do, when confronted with his very lovely husband in such a state, but he cannot help but think that it would be a mistake to do what he wants most to do. What he wants is to go closer; to spread himself over Viktor’s body, and scent his skin, and bite his throat until he cries, and have him again and again and again until he is sated.

Viktor’s scent is so strong Yuuri can almost taste it.

“You must have long wished my absence,” he says. “Excuse me. I will send your maid to you.”

“Do not, I beg you.”

“Is there nothing you require?”

“Nothing that anyone can provide.”

What Viktor means is that there is nothing Yuuri can provide, which is eminently true—Yuuri is shamefully ignorant in these matters. He imagines that Viktor’s previous heats have gone differently, but the thought of other alphas laying hands on Viktor lights a fire of jealousy in Yuuri’s belly. It is pointless to speculate; he must attend to Viktor’s comfort now, even if that means sleeping in the guest wing for a few nights.

Even if Yuuri’s true desire is to remain at Viktor’s side, as he would if Viktor loved him.

“Excuse me.”

He means to go, and yet Yuuri’s legs do not obey him; he takes a deep breath, as if the air Viktor exhales might satisfy him. The collar of Viktor’s shirt is crumpled under his fingers; Yuuri watches him draw his fingertips down the side of his neck, watches them dip beneath the shirt.

“I ought to go,” Yuuri says again, and then he takes a step forward and seats himself on the bed beside him. Viktor’s hair is wild; Yuuri toys with the strand nearest his thigh. “Unless...you wish otherwise…”

“I am not accustomed to company in this state.”

“You are not?”

“I have hardly been in a position to support a child. Nor would I wish to bring one into the world without the means to care for them.”

A child.

They cannot have one, of course, but Yuuri has never given the idea of it more than a passing thought. A part of him had assumed, on the basis of Viktor’s previous indiscretions, that he was uninterested in becoming a father. Their temporary marriage could not remain so if Viktor fell with child.

But if Yuuri bedded Viktor now, he might be quickening before their divorce was finalized. There is something wistful in Viktor’s voice when he describes his previous circumstances; does he regret that that part of life was closed off to him? If Yuuri offered him—would he stay—

Yuuri closes his eyes in shame. He has no right to even think such things; Viktor deserves his own family, with whomever he chooses, for mutual affection rather than financial gain.

“If you wish me to go, I will go. And if you wish me to stay…”

“My behavior may shock you.”

“Viktor, you once set one of our dinner guests on fire.”

“It was only an illusion.”

“If you wish to be an original, I should not mind if you choose to practice your talents on me.”

Viktor licks his lips.

“Come closer, dearest.”

Yuuri obeys, and seats himself among what he realizes must be Viktor’s nesting, his legs crossed over each other by Viktor’s head. Viktor rolls over, and lays his head squarely in Yuuri’s lap. His hair is starkly pale against Yuuri’s trousers; his eyes fall closed as he inhales so deeply Yuuri can see the rise and fall of his chest.

His throat is entirely exposed; Yuuri follows the line of it with his fingers, Viktor’s galloping pulse and his inflamed scent gland and his quick breathing, down to where his chest is open. Viktor turns his face into Yuuri’s thigh, where beneath his clothing his scent gland is tingling; Viktor’s free hand slides down his chest and vanishes beneath the hem of his shirt between his thighs.

The sound that slips from Yuuri’s mouth is neither coherent nor sensible. His mouth is dry.

“I did warn you that you would be appalled,” Viktor teases. His shirt rustles as his hand moves; Yuuri imagines Viktor’s long fingers pressed deep within his cunt and nearly bites off his tongue.

“I am not appalled. I have always wanted to see you do this—only I can never manage to catch you at it. You time it very exactly to when I am out of the house.”

In lieu of answering, Viktor rucks up his shirt so that everything is visible, and opens his legs. Yuuri swallows at this display. He presses down on Viktor’s throat enough to draw out his wordless cry. Viktor muffles himself against the inside of Yuuri’s thigh, leaves a wet spot on the fabric, sends all the blood in Yuuri’s body south.

Viktor might pretend a longing for Yuuri he does not feel; he might demonstrate greater pleasure from Yuuri’s blandishments than is deserved; he might accept Yuuri’s affections out of pure pragmatism. As much as Yuuri loathes the idea of it, he cannot think of Viktor as mercenary or conniving. He has come to see that Viktor’s life has been hard, and Viktor’s liaisons with other alphas have been about necessity, not licentiousness.

But Viktor pleasuring himself alone is entirely selfish. What he does to himself cannot be for Yuuri’s benefit. Yuuri has already gained from their marriage in every conceivable way, and yet he remains greedy: he wants to peel back all the the artifice and charm Viktor wears like armor, and watch him come apart like the last fraying of a well worn rope.

Yuuri grips Viktor’s hair with his free hand.

Viktor is shockingly careless with himself. Where Yuuri would have practiced tenderness and restraint, Viktor has no such compunctions. The heel of his palm grinds down against his sex while two glistening fingers thrust into him. With his other hand he pinches the tip of his nipple, strokes his chest and stomach erratically. The scent of his heat is so heavy that Yuuri can barely breathe.

“You’re very beautiful,” Yuuri says, and is ashamed of his mindless flattery. Viktor must have heard this ten thousand times already; he is hardly unaware of his appearance.

But Viktor whimpers, shifting his fingers so that his thumb is pressing down on the sensitive spot at the top of his sex. His fingers curl into himself, the sound of them sliding in and out obscenely loud.

“Yuuri…”

“You have pretty eyebrows,” Yuuri goes on.

“Please,” Viktor says. He sighs; Yuuri thinks that he is intimating that Yuuri should be silent before he disgraces himself further, but then Viktor goes on, “Don’t stop.”

“I wish that you had some sort of flaw. You don’t know how intimidating it is, to lie with someone who is perfection, and to not know—to have no idea what I am doing—”

“Yuuri—”

“And I cannot fathom why you persist with so many illusions, because I have seen you without them and cannot discern any difference—”

“Oh—”

“Darling,” Yuuri says, Viktor’s neck under his palm, “you must have heard this all before, but you are very, very lovely—”

Viktor climaxes, trembling, biting into Yuuri’s trousers to keep from screaming. There’s a dark stain on the sheets between his thighs. He presses slick fingers to his lips, and his tongue darts out to taste. Yuuri bites at his lower lip to keep from swearing; he has longed to put his mouth between Viktor’s thighs more than once, but has never mustered the courage.

He adjusts his grip on Viktor, intending to make him more comfortable—Yuuri’s lap is hardly a replacement for a pillow—but Viktor must misunderstand his intentions, for he rolls over to press his lips against the fall of Yuuri’s trousers.

Yuuri is throbbing and hard, and the heat of Viktor’s open mouth through the cloth nearly undoes him then and there.

“What are you doing,” he says, voice coming out shrill.

“I must repay all your lovemaking somehow.”

“You must do no such thing.”

“No? But I want you to spend inside me, Yuuri.” Viktor mouths at him. Yuuri lets his head fall back against the headboard; it stings, but he hardly notices it. Viktor’s fingers dig into his thighs. He reaches up to unfasten Yuuri’s trousers. “Please?”

“If you insist,” Yuuri says, dazed into submission by the coy flutter of Viktor’s lashes.

Viktor frees him from the confine of his clothing, and then actually lets Yuuri’s cock slide into his—

Yuuri closes his eyes, in an attempt to abate his shame at allowing Viktor to degrade himself this way. But the sensation of it is unimaginable, Viktor’s warm mouth as wet as his cunt, his tongue rubbing over Yuuri’s skin like he means to devour him. Shamefully, he dares to look down.

Viktor is sucking him with every sign of enjoying it; one of his hands has vanished beneath him, and Yuuri can hear the slick sound of him fingering himself. Can he touch Viktor? Yuuri lays his hands tentatively on his head again, and buries them in Viktor’s fine, soft hair. He ought to be embarrassed to be this close, after such brief intercourse, but Yuuri feels like a boy again, fumbling with himself in the first flush of pleasure. Viktor’s free hand is on Yuuri’s leg, nails biting with the force of his hold.

He draws Yuuri all the way into his throat, until the tip of his nose is brushing the wiry hair at the base of Yuuri’s cock, and that is too much. Yuuri tries to push him off as he is undone, but Viktor resists.

When he finally lifts his head, there is seed dripping out from the corner of his lips.

“Hah,” he pants. His hips lift as he drives his hand into himself, and Yuuri can do nothing but pet him and whispers words of encouragement while he climaxes, hanging onto Yuuri’s leg with such force he might leave marks.

When he slumps back down onto the bed, Yuuri tugs him upright again.

“Come sit,” he says. Viktor blinks at him, but he complies, and lets himself be arranged in Yuuri’s lap, his head on Yuuri’s shoulder.

“Is there water?”

Yuuri looks around. There is none, but when he spells the door open there is a tray of bread and cheese with a pitcher and glass sitting on the floor. It takes him more effort than it should to levitate them into the room and set them on the nightstand; the door slams shut with more force than he meant to use.

The idea of anyone passing in the hall looking at Viktor makes Yuuri suppress a growl. He has no right to be possessive, but he is.

“Here.” Yuuri pours Viktor a cup, using his hands instead of his magic.

Viktor downs the water in one gulp and groans.

“If you wish to leave, you should go now, before it begins in earnest.”

“I will not leave you.”

“It will not be very satisfying for you.”

Yuuri does not quite understand why Viktor is trying to drive him off, when he is stroking Yuuri’s shoulder with his free hand tenderly. Perhaps he merely thinks he ought to.

“I do not care about that. I shall look after you until it passes.”

“Very well.” Viktor curls into him.

Yuuri winds his arms around him. Viktor’s skin feels too warm, as if he is feverish, and it makes Yuuri nervous, for all that he knows it is a symptom of his heat, not illness. He still dreams about waking up and discovering Viktor has died in the night.

He flattens his hand on Viktor’s chest to feel him breathe.

“My Yuuri.”

Viktor’s use of the possessive sends a thrill up Yuuri’s spine. His hold on Viktor tightens a little, as if he might seduce Viktor into falling in love with him.

“Viktor,” he says. Yuuri does not dare to reciprocate in kind.

“I wish that you were…”

When Viktor does not finish his sentence, and minutes have passed in pensive silence, Yuuri lays his cheek against Viktor’s head and understands. Viktor must wish that he were someone else. Yuuri has suspected before that Viktor might have had a paramour in the past; perhaps there was someone he desired who rejected him, or perhaps they were kept apart by lack of money on either side. No doubt his regret is that he is forced to make do with Yuuri’s company, for Yuuri, for all that he hopes to have become Viktor’s friend, cannot replace whomever is in Viktor’s heart.

“I wish that I could be everything you needed,” Yuuri says.

“This is enough for me.”

Viktor finds Yuuri’s mouth with his own, and Yuuri lets himself be kissed until the filthy sound of Viktor touching himself again distracts him. Viktor’s pupils are wide with desire. Yuuri lets his hand slide down until it is beside Viktor’s; he slots his fingers into Viktor’s cunt alongside them.

The touch of Viktor over the scent gland on Yuuri’s neck is like a brand. Yuuri closes his eyes, holds Viktor close to him, resigns himself to suffering in unrequited longing.

This will have to be enough for him, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Think of this as a reward for the four angsty bits I posted today as well :)


End file.
